


dream in the dark

by A_Confused_Kitten



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, First Meetings, Gen, Hurt Aramis | René d'Herblay, Hurt/Comfort, Post Savoy, Pre-Canon, Protective Athos | Comte de la Fère, Protective Porthos du Vallon, Savoy fic, not a happy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:21:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28851993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Confused_Kitten/pseuds/A_Confused_Kitten
Summary: He remembers being useless, remembers the black spots that filled his vision as someone dragged him away. Remembers Marsac’s concerned face, careful hands wrapping bandages around the bullet wound and-Aramis remembers that Marsac never even looked back as he walked away.~~Or, in which, Aramis is lost after the massacre, and two strangers pick up the pieces.
Relationships: Aramis | René d'Herblay & Athos | Comte de la Fère & Porthos du Vallon
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	dream in the dark

Everything is still.

A forest isn’t meant to be a silent place, even in the middle of winter, and yet, it is. There’s not even the slightest sound, not the whispers of voices or the fall of footsteps. No animals scurry about, not a bird in the trees nor a mouse on the ground. The wind, never silent, never soft-spoken, doesn’t dare whistle, doesn’t dare say a word.

Everything is still and everything is  _ wrong,  _ and Aramis is the only one left to see it.

Everything is still and everything is wrong and he’s the sole exception, the only thing still standing amongst the bloodstained snow and the dark forest. Because he’s the one still alive, the one who wasn’t torn down in the massacre. 

_ They’re all dead,  _ his mind whispers, the only sound in the silence,  _ they’re all dead, and you should be with them.  _

And isn’t that true? The biting cold stings his face, and he’s frozen, too tired to even rise to his feet. Blood trickles from a cut on his face, and there’s a deep cut running diagonally across his forearm, and a still-bleeding wound from where a bullet had gone through his leg, but Aramis hardly notices because  _ oh God,  _ his brothers are dead and there’s  _ nothing  _ he can do and-

It was supposed to be easy.

A simple training exercise near the Savoy border, that was what Captain Treville had called it. And that’s what it had been, until night had fallen and-

Soldiers had opened fire on their camp. At least a dozen men, armed with pistols and swords, stormed the camp, attacking as though they had broken a rule simply by  _ being there,  _ and none of them had been ready. The men hadn’t attacked blindly, they’d waited for the moment they’d let their guard down, and when they had finally fired their weapons, six out of the twenty-two Musketeers died to their guns. 

Aramis remembers whipping around, ready to fight, only for a bullet to cut right through his thigh, sending him straight back to the ground. He remembers the horses running wild, causing distraction among the fighting, and thinking  _ there’s no way for us to survive this.  _ Because how could they? Their horses, their only way out of here, were running as far away as they can, and they were being picked off. 

His brothers were being killed like animals, like birds on a hunt-

He remembers being useless, remembers the black spots that filled his vision as someone dragged him away. Remembers Marsac’s concerned face, careful hands wrapping bandages around the bullet wound and-

Aramis remembers that Marsac never even looked back as he walked away.

And now he’s trapped here. Trapped in the cold and trapped as his mind as his chances of survival slowly dwindle down to nothing. It’s a race to see whether he freezes, or if his leg wound finally takes him to an early grace, because there’s no way he can survive this.

He can’t even get to his feet.

A bitter laugh escapes his lips, until he’s shaking from the force of it. His head aches from the sound, and any movement sends pain shooting down his legs, and Aramis doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand the bruises on his arms and the way his ankle burns, when he’d only been shot in the opposite thigh. 

He  _ knows  _ they must be from Marsac’s escape, from being dragged from the fight kicking and screaming, but that doesn’t  _ matter.  _ How could it? Everyone he knows is gone, either killed by unknown soldiers or having left by their own choice.

Distantly, he wishes he died with them.

Death would be better than the harsh cold, kinder than the unforgiving winds, but no. Aramis survived the massacre because his closest friend had pulled him to safety, but he was still meant to die here. Here, separated from his brothers, but he’ll join them soon enough, and Marsac-

“He left me,” he breathes, and he barely recognizes his own voice. It’s too soft and too raw and too damn  _ quiet,  _ but that doesn’t matter right now because,  _ “Marsac left me.” _

And that is what truly hurts. Not the bullet wound in his leg or the numbing cold from the snow, but Marsac’s desertion. Because Marsac is his brother in all but blood, he has been since they got their commission together, since they earned their blue.

He’d called them inseparable, too, but maybe those were nothing more than words. False platitudes and sincere smiles, is that all it was?

Aramis feels himself grow colder, and he doesn’t know if it's from the chill or from the sting of being left behind. 

He should move, try and get up or call for help or do  _ anything  _ that isn’t this. That isn’t sitting here, useless, but Aramis is too tired to care. A bullet wound in one leg and some kind of break in the other ankle, and even with the dazed world around him, Aramis knows there’s no escaping this.

And  _ God,  _ he’s tired. His bones are heavy and everything aches and even the slightest motion sends fire coursing through his veins. Some part of his mind screams  _ you need to move, you need to get up, you need to survive,  _ because he knows. He’s seen what happens when you fall prey to the cold, what happens when a person gets lost among the storm.

It’s not a pleasant way to go, but then again, there’s not a part of this that is.

His eyes fall close, as the snow falls quicker around him. “Only for a moment,” Aramis says, and the words ring false, even to him. “Only a moment.”

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, drifting. Slowly, exhaustion seeps in, and the cold doesn’t hesitate to sink its claws into his body. The tree against his back is the only thing keeping him upright, the only reason he hasn’t fallen into the red snow, painted crimson by his bleeding wounds.

His gaze drifts upwards, and for the first time in his life, the sky doesn’t seem beautiful. Millions of stars look down upon them, uncaring for him and his fallen brothers, and yet, the dark sky seems emptier, somehow. 

Aramis is drifting again, drifting farther and farther away from this place. The world around him seems slow, far too  _ still  _ and there’s something wrong about it, but he doesn’t know  _ what.  _

“Is anyone out here?”

Voices.

There are voices echoing through the trees, footsteps on fallen snow, and for an instant, Aramis wonders if Marsac had come back for him. But the sounds come from the wrong direction, and his brother’s  pauldron is still there, the fleur-de-lis a stark reminder of what’s been left behind.

No, whoever’s out there is a stranger.

He doesn’t know if he should be worried or relieved. Worried, that the people who stumble upon him are nothing good; bandits perhaps, or the enemy soldiers, come to make sure their mission is complete. But maybe there’s the slightest chance of survival. For the first time in hours, his heart beats with some semblance of hope, because maybe, just maybe, he won’t die in this white prison.

_ Over here,  _ he tries to say, because it’s pointless if he can’t catch their attention, but the words come out slurred and rasped. He tries to push himself away from the stump, but his limbs are frozen.  _ Not frozen,  _ he tells himself,  _ numb. Just numb. _

“Over here,” Aramis says, and this time, the words don’t escape him. They’re cracked, yes, broken and weak and far too quiet, but they’re there, and that’s what matters. “I’m over here.”

For a moment, there's silence. There's not a sound among the dark trees and glistening snow, nothing except for his trembling breaths and the crows cawing somewhere above his head, and Aramis thinks his silent whisper went unnoticed.

Then, hurried footsteps, two voices shouting words Aramis is too tired to pay attention to.

He wonders if whoever it is has seen his brothers. Has seen the carnage and bloodshed of the night before, has seen the cost of his survival. They died and Marsac left, and he’s the  _ only one left,  _ the last out of the twenty-two musketeers who’d come with him, and he wonders if these strangers will leave him to this fate.

Just as his eyes fall shut, cold and exhaustion and desperation finally taking their toll, the voices come again, louder than before.

“Athos,” a man breathes.

And then there are gentle hands, fingers brushing over his wrists, his face, his heart. “Come on, now,” he says, and distantly, Aramis realizes the man’s talking to him. “Open your eyes for me.”

He does. Aramis blinks slowly, looking between the unknown men. Neither of them are the slightest bit familiar, but he knew that would be true. A part of him wonders why they’re still here, wasting their time with a dead man, but he doesn’t voice those thoughts. 

“There you go,” the first man, tall and dark-skinned, says, wearing a sad smile on his face. “Can you tell me who you are?”

“Aramis.” He says, and that's all the answer he can give.

The other man, the one the first called Athos, rolls his eyes. “We don’t have time for this, Porthos. Hand him here.”

The first man, Porthos, slowly reaches forward, gently tapping his face. Aramis blinks up at him, and Porthos gives him a small grin. “I’m goin’ to move you now, alright? Do you got any injuries that I need to be aware of?”

“Legs,” Aramis says, without a second thought. “ Shot in the left, broke m’ other ankle.”

A grimace flashes across Porthos face, and the man shoots a look over Aramis’ shoulder. “This is goin’ to hurt, my friend, but we need to warm you up and check your injuries, before we can move you out of ‘ere and into a safer place.”

Aramis barely has the chance to nod before arms wrap around him from the side, holding him firmly, and then pulling him to the side. And he can’t stop himself from crying out, from curling in on himself because _ we can’t leave them, we can’t leave them, Marsac you’re hurting me stop please stop don’t go, don’t leave me here with them, don’t leave me here to die- _

The arms around him tighten, and somehow, it’s turned into a grounding embrace. “No one is going anywhere, Aramis,” Athos says, his voice soft. “You have my word.”

The words are hard to believe, coming from a person he’s never met, but Aramis supposes he has to have trust in them. It’s either that or somehow find the strength to survive the cold, and it’s hard enough to simply open his eyes.

There’s shuffling behind him, Athos moving carefully as he does  _ something  _ Aramis can’t see. Then, a heavy weight falls upon his shoulders, familiar and strange at once, and oh. 

“Won’t you need it?” Aramis asks, as the other settles his cloak around Aramis’ body, before Athos holds him tight to his chest. 

“I’m not the one who’s been out in the snow for hours,” Athos says, and there’s the slightest hint of concern in his voice. But that can’t be right, because they hardly know each other, barely know each other’s names. “I can handle the cold, you cannot.”

He’s right, Aramis knows that.

Because his mind is tired and his body is aching, after being trapped on the ground with nothing but corpses and crows for company. Any longer, and Aramis fears he may have drifted too far.  _ Any longer,  _ he thinks, bitter and dark,  _ and I would be with my brothers once again.  _

“Hey there,” Porthos says, and Aramis blinks up at him. He’s closer than before, kneeling down in the cold snow, shrugging off his cloak just as Athos had done. The taller man wraps the cloak around his front, as though it were a blanket, then sits back, a serious look on his face. “I’m goin’ to take a look at this bullet wound, yeah? We need to make sure the bleedin’s stopped, ‘cause we don’t want to move you if it’ll make your injuries worse, but stayin’ out here any longer is goin’ to make things worse for you.”

Athos nods. “Porthos is right. Stay still long enough for him to check your wounds, and then we’ll get you somewhere out of the cold. Can you do that for me?”

It takes far too long for the words to make sense in his mind, but Aramis nods. It's what he would do if he was in their situation, but he still bites back a cry when hands brush against the wound. The bandage comes off, achingly slow, but Aramis can hardly focus on it, too distracted by the warmth seeping into his bones.

It’s not quite a pleasant feeling, like pins and needles under his skin, but he still finds himself leaning into the touch. Athos, on his part, doesn’t seem to mind. He only adjusts his grip, one arm still loose around his chest while his other hand gently holds Aramis’ own.

And if Aramis takes it, numb fingers holding on as tight as they can, no one mentions it. 

Aramis wonders how long it’s been, wonders how long he’s been sitting here, lost in his thoughts and lost among the snow. He thinks Porthos’ careful motions and Athos’ firm grasp are the only reasons he’s still here. 

He wonders if they know that. 

“You’re alright to move,” Porthos says, “but you’re goin’ to be ridin’ with one of us, unless you miraculously can ride a horse with two bad legs and a possible concussion, on top of bein’ almost frozen.”

And then they're lifting him up, practically carrying him. And every step feels like fire, but at least this time he's not being dragged carelessly. At least this time, the only cries are his own half-choked whispers, not the screams-

“Come on, 'Mis, stay with us.” Porthos says, before he can get lost in thought, and there's a note of concern in his voice. “No fallin' asleep on us now, my friend.”

And there’s so much he could say, because  _ he isn’t falling asleep, just lost in thought. _ Though, that may not be a good idea either, with the way his head feels like cotton and his limbs like lead. Maybe he should ask  _ who are you  _ or  _ what are you doing here  _ instead of trusting blindly.

“Why are you helping me?” And  _ oh,  _ that’s not what he meant to say, but the question hasn’t left his mind for a moment. There’s no reason they should be wasting their time on him, no reason they should be by his side.

But their touch is solid, grounding, and somehow, they’re still here.

There’s a quiet moment, before either of them speaks, and when they do the words are soft. “I am not a good person, my friend,” Athos says, “But I will not leave a man to die. Not when I have the strength to save him.

Porthos tightens his grip. “I have seen many good men die before their time, and if I can prevent that now, I’ll sleep easy. You will not die out here, Aramis, you have my word.”

“And,” Athos cuts in, “You have mine. Now, do you trust that we’ll prevent any further harm from befalling you?”

Somehow, Aramis does. And he doesn’t know why, because he’s known them for minutes, an hour at the most, but he’s never been weaker than he is now, and they’re the ones who helped him to his feet. He  _ wants  _ to trust them, to have someone he can rely on, even if it’s only for a little while.

_ Everyone else is gone,  _ his mind whispers,  _ Marsac and all the rest.  _ And that’s true, no matter how painful it is. Aramis is the only one left out of twenty-two men, and he’ll spend forever with the weight of that on his shoulders, but he has to believe that he’s more than this. More than red stained snow and silent forests, that he’s more than the whispers flooding his mind.

He takes a breath. “I trust you. Both of you.”

“Don’t be surprised if you’re stuck with us, then.” Porthos says, but he’s grinning. And it’s jagged and sharp, but it’s  _ kind.  _ “We’re protective of our own, you see.”

Athos shakes his head, but Aramis can see his smile, even if it’s small. “All for one and one for all, as I like to say.”

_ All for one and one for all,  _ he thinks, and for the first time in what feels like days, Aramis smiles. “I can live for that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Heyo! I can't quite tell if I like this fic or not, but I've spent the last forty minutes trying to get the ending to sound right, so this'll have to do. But yeah, this hasn't been edited at all, but again. It's 12:30am, and I can always go back and fix any mistakes later, sooooo, yeah. Take some inseparables angst and meetings. I *may* end up writing a second part to this from Athos or Porthos pov depending on what y'all think of this, but I don't know yet.
> 
> If ya wanna yell at me, come find me on discord! I spend way too much time on there enabling (and being enabled by) Chaos and Eli.  
> Cheshire #1847


End file.
